


Convergence

by Systatic



Category: Dragon Age, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Dimension Travel, Drama, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Systatic/pseuds/Systatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry chose to move on rather than live, but landing in a world just as war-torn as his own wasn't his idea of an afterlife. But after meeting Malcolm Cousland, he's decided Ferelden isn't all bad. m!Cousland/Harry, Dragon Age/HP crossover, SLASH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Blanket Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter/J. K. Rowling/Bloomsbury, etc. or Dragon Age/Bioware, etc. and I am not affiliated with them in any way. This story is purely for entertainment value. Some quotes might be taken directly from the game.
> 
> As a warning: This story contains slash, otherwise known as homosexual pairings, i.e. romantic liaisons between two men.
> 
> This is a male Cousland (Human Noble)/Harry Potter story.

The boy was worryingly silent. They had left behind the massacre at Castle Cousland two days ago, and Malcolm Cousland, the youngest son and possibly the only survivor of the Cousland family, who presided over the Highever teynir, had been utterly and completely silent.

Duncan sighed and dragged a weary, gloved hand down his cheeks. Malcolm trudged ahead, his shoulders tight with tension and hands fisted at his sides. His mabari warhound, a great bear-like dog, trotted at his right, ears perked. The young man was furious, that much was obvious; it was written into the lines of his face, in the purse of his mouth, and in his eyes, which burned with a rage the battle-weary Warden Commander was all too familiar with.

The young man had his father's coloring: tan skin, pale blue eyes, and dark chestnut colored hair, but his mother's bone structure, with an aquiline nose, high cheek bones, and a stubborn jaw. He was tall, taller than most men, and probably broader than them too, and had short-cropped hair. Built like a tank, his father had once said. No doubt he had broken the hearts of many women.

"Let's stop here for the night," Duncan eventually said, ending his scrutiny. They had been moving almost non-stop and were finally far enough from Castle Cousland and the main wave of Howe's occupation that he felt it safe to rest.

Malcolm merely glanced back and grunted in affirmation, heading off the road and into a small copse of trees to make camp.

Duncan shook his head, hoping that Malcolm would eventually find some way to redirect or harness his anger; with the way he was going, the boy would only get himself killed.

* * *

Odin's head rose abruptly. Malcolm jolted awake when his mabari's throat began to vibrate with a low growl and slung off his blanket. His eyes landed on Duncan, who was sitting with his back to the crackling fire, his back silhouetted against the dark trees.

"What is it?" he asked, voice husky from sleep. Duncan turned to regard him, his eyes hooded.

"Darkspawn," the man eventually answered, keeping his voice low. Malcolm almost had to strain to hear his words. "I'm not sure what they're doing this far north, but there's a band of about twenty of them, and they're heading this way," he said. "Your hound woke you before I could."

Malcolm's jaw tightened and he stood, checking his armor and equipment, not even bothering to ask how the man knew there were darkspawn coming their way. Duncan had been frustratingly quiet about all things Warden-related, not that Malcolm had really been asking.

Five minutes later, Duncan stood and drew his weapons, moving behind the fire to make sure he didn't trip over it. "Get ready," was all he said. Malcolm's grip tightened on his sword, and his heart pumped quicker.

Duncan's words were punctuated by a scream, and both men's eyes widened. A crashing echoed through the trees, some muffled words, and then a dark shape flew into the clearing, a whimper escaping it when it crashed bodily into Malcolm's hard plate armor.

Malcolm could do little but stare when startling green eyes stared up at him, bright with fever and pain. The pale face was smudged with blood and dirt, and a bruise was high on their left cheek. "Help me," the stranger rasped, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. The youngest Cousland caught the boy around the waist and hauled him against his chest with his shield arm.

He turned to Odin. "Guard him," he ordered, before placing the unconscious teen against a tree. Odin rumbled a reply and took up a protective stance in front of the newcomer.

Malcolm scarcely had time to meet Duncan's eyes before they were overrun. With pleading green eyes hovering in his conscious, the young man surged forward.

* * *

Malcolm's eyes opened when he heard the stranger's breathing quicken. He sat cross-legged by the teen's prone body, having given up his bedroll. No doubt Duncan had been confused when he refused to leave the boy's side, but he ignored the man's questioning stares and turned his gaze to the stranger's face.

The teen's brow puckered slightly and petal pink lips parted in a quiet groan. Malcolm moved slightly closer as the teen's eyelashes fluttered, and locked eyes with slowly focusing bright green. His lips twitched in amusement when a flush darkened the stranger's cheeks.

"H-Hi," they stuttered, obviously uncertain how to greet him. Malcolm chuckled quietly and picked up a rag he'd dampened with water from his canteen. He lightly dabbed away the dirt and blood on the green-eyed teen's face, being ever careful of the darkening bruise on his cheek, and traced the alabaster features with his eyes.

"Good morning," he replied when he was finished with his task.

"I'm Harry," the teen whispered, tilting his head and then wincing as his neck protested the movement.

"Malcolm," the warrior offered. "Try not to move much. You had a rough night."

Harry glanced away in what seemed to be shame. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lead those, those things to you." He bit his lip, and turned his gaze back to Malcolm, "I don't even know where I am."

Malcolm frowned, "You're in Fereldan, a few days outside of Highever and close to West Hill." He ignored the way his throat tightened around the name of his home.

Harry's eyes clouded with confusion. "Where is that?"

The brown-haired man's brow knitted together. "Where are you from?" he asked, instead.

"England," the teen answered instantly, "or rather Scotland. I live there most of the year, so I guess that's where I'm from."

By now, Duncan had walked up, seeing the newcomer was awake. Harry noticed him and almost instantly shifted towards Malcolm, grimacing as his spine was wracked with pain. The Grey Warden held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Easy, I'm not going to hurt you." The man had kind eyes, Harry decided, and relaxed a bit.

"I'm sorry," Harry apologized again. "I just haven't had very much luck, lately. I woke up, and I was here—wherever _here_ is, and then those _things_ just, popped up from the ground and started to chase me. I couldn't shake them, no matter what I did." He shivered in memory, and looked between the two warriors. "You weren't hurt because of me, were you?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, we weren't, but thank you for the concern. By the time you reached us, your pursuers were rather worn out, and we dispatched them easily."

Harry stared at Duncan with wide eyes. "Oh," he muttered, his entire body sagging in relief. "They're de—they're gone, then?" Duncan nodded. "Oh," he said again, "that's good."

Duncan smiled at the teen's obvious relief. "I'm glad you think so. My name is Duncan, and I'm sure you've already met Malcolm." Odin suddenly barked in protest at being ignored, and bounded up next to the bedroll. Harry yelped in surprise before letting out a soft cry of pain when he jarred his injuries.

"Odin, stop," Malcolm scolded, already helping Harry lay back down. Odin whined and sunk to his belly, resting his massive head on his forepaws. Harry grinned tiredly at the large doleful eyes.

"It's alright," he said. "He just surprised me." Malcolm shook his head.

"He should be more careful around the injured, regardless. You're pretty banged up as it is, you don't need to add any more bruises."

Duncan watched the two interact with sharp eyes, rather surprised at how Malcolm spoke so easily with the green-eyed lad. Obviously his newest recruit had seen something in the young man, whatever it might be.

"If you don't mind me asking," he interrupted their quiet conversation, "where did you say you're from?"

"I—Scotland, which is in the United Kingdom."

Duncan looked at Malcolm for a split second before speaking to Harry, "I do not know of any place called Scotland or the United Kingdom, young man, nor have I come across those names in my travels. Do you know how you might have gotten here?"

Harry shook his head slowly, his breath quickening. His eyes glazed over slightly. "I died, I think. I couldn't be sure, but I think I did. I was given a choice—to continue living, or move on. I—" his voice cracked, "I was so tired. There was so much death and pain, and I'd done what they told me I had to do. I died," he said bitterly, "just like they said I had to. My job was done—I didn't want to go back. I wanted to rest. I wanted to see my family again, but... it went dark, and then I woke up here."

Duncan and Malcolm were speechless. Harry laughed a bit hysterically at the looks on their faces. "It sounds stupid, doesn't it? You don't believe me. I wouldn't either, of course. No one comes back from the dead, and they certainly don't get dropped into another world or whatever this is." His words cut off with a giggle, "Feel free to kill me, if you want. I don't have anything going for me here."

The corners of Malcolm's mouth tightened and he turned to glare at Duncan so fiercely the Warden Commander actually felt a tinge of fear. "No one will be killing you, Harry," Malcolm said slowly, still looking Duncan in the eyes. "Whether you're from another world or not, you're here now." He locked eyes with Harry's bright green ones, and the message in them went unsaid between the two. _You're with me, now._

Duncan watched the exchange with no small amount of bafflement. He cleared his throat, "Malcolm is right, little one. There's no reason to take your life; you haven't proven to be a threat to us and," he paused to chuckle, a twinkle coming to his eye, "I doubt Malcolm would appreciate you coming to harm."

Harry's face flushed brightly and Malcolm scowled at the Warden. _Crazy old man,_ he growled to himself.

Harry grasped Malcolm's hand, his grip tentative but warm. "Thank you," he whispered. Malcolm hummed quietly, and brushed a calloused hand over Harry's unblemished cheek, noting the way the teen leaned into his touch.

"Sleep," he said. Harry did.

* * *

"You have taken to him quickly," Duncan remarked when the noon sun, its hot rays obscured by leafy branches, hung high overhead. Malcolm grunted, and the Grey Warden looked amused at the young man's lack of reply. "I'm guessing that you want him to come with us."

Malcolm finally looked away from Harry to meet the eyes of his companion. They sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, far enough away that their conversation would be private. "Yes," he said quietly.

Duncan sighed. "I am leery of having him in Ostagar, or even near where the battle is. We have no idea whether or not he has any skill in defending himself." Granted, the boy did practically say he'd come from a war in his own world, which he'd played a key part in, but he couldn't be sure. Plus, he was injured and disoriented. The Grey Wardens needed all the help they could get, but even Duncan drew the line somewhere.

Malcolm tensed. Duncan ignored him and continued, "However, I can see that you are most unwilling to leave him undefended, or as it stands, out of your sight. Should he be healthy enough on the morrow, we will take him with us. Then we'll worry about his fighting skills."

His recruit stared at him with unreadable eyes, but Duncan could see some of the tension drain out of his frame. He wondered just why Malcolm had latched onto the boy so quickly, whether it was because of his reluctance to see the death of an innocent, or because of some more personal reason, but he could do little but see where it would lead. Perhaps there was a reason this Harry was sent to Fereldan, to Malcolm. In the face of a Blight, Duncan was willing to do anything, _anything_ , to save his homeland.

He closed his eyes and turned away from where Malcolm had laid down next to Harry with Odin on the boy's other side, master and hound enclosing the boy in a net of safety. _Maker guide me_ , he prayed.

* * *

"Where are my clothes?"

Malcolm grinned at Harry's indignant squeak. He had been wondering when the teen would realize that underneath his blanket, he was only clothed in bandages and his underclothes. "They were ruined," he told him, amusement dancing in his eyes. Harry was as red as a tomato.

They were alone in the camp, Duncan having left early that morning to look into the trail that Harry and the darkspawn had left. He seemed unsettled that they had migrated so far out of the Kocari Wilds. Malcolm had elected to stay at camp with Harry—even though he could do with a few lessons about darkspawn—a fact that hadn't much surprised the Warden Commander.

"Who—who took them off of me?" Malcolm merely raised an eyebrow, and Harry groaned in embarrassment. His smile slipped off his face, though, when he saw that Harry was genuinely upset underneath his embarrassment.

"What's wrong?" he asked, walking over and crouching down beside the fidgeting young man.

Harry looked up at him, "Did you see a long stick in the belongings? It's Holly, and polished—it should have been in the pockets."

The wood obviously had some importance to Harry. "I didn't throw them out," Malcolm gently reassured him. "But they were covered with things better left unsaid. I'll search the pockets, if you want me to." Harry nodded shallowly. "Be right back, then."

It didn't take Malcolm long to find it, a slender piece of wood about a foot long engraved with several designs, probably runes, most likely from Harry's world, and a handle. He paused when another stick, similar in appearance but where the first was a dark wood, this one was lighter in appearance, a fair bit longer, and had knobs along the wood every few inches. He frowned as he eyed them. They were... warm, for lack of a better word, and seemed to hum in his hands. He wondered if they were a weapon, of some trinket of Harry's.

"Here," he said, setting the two objects on Harry's lap. "Both of them were in the pockets of your clothing." He wondered if something was wrong when Harry stared at the white-wood stick with trepidation.

"Both of them?" he croaked, reaching out a trembling finger to touch the carved wood of the second stick he'd found, the longer one.

"Something wrong?" he asked. Harry paused and turned to look at him, something weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

"Do you believe in magic?" he suddenly asked. Malcolm was taken aback for a second.

"Are you a mage?" he asked instead of replying. Harry looked taken aback by his words.

"A—what?"

"A mage," Malcolm repeated, settling down on the ground. He stretched one of his legs out behind Harry's back and folded the other underneath. "They're magic users that live in the Circle Tower," he said, before mentally smacking himself. If Harry really came from another world like he said, he wouldn't have any idea what the Circle Tower was, and judging by his dumbstruck expression, he hadn't.

"In my world, we're called witches and wizards," Harry commented, shaking his head. "Everyone knows about these—mages, you called them?"

Malcolm nodded. "It's common knowledge. They all live in the Circle Tower, which is, well, a circular Tower in the middle of a lake. They're guarded by the Templars. Many times, they're hired out to be healers or weapon enchanters."

Harry pursed his lips. "I—my magic is nothing like that. I mean, I can heal, I was taught how, but I don't know how to, er, enchant weapons or anything." He gestured to the two sticks, "These are my wands; I guess you could call them my weapons-they're what I channel my magic through."

Malcolm leaned in closer to inspect the two wands on Harry's lap. "They look like pieces of wood to me," he admitted, "but they felt odd when I picked them up. Was that the magic?" Harry nodded.

"The exterior is wood, but the center, the core, has something from a magical creature, which allows magic to be channeled through it." He picked up the Holly wand, "This—I got this when I was eleven and first introduced to the magical world. It's holly, eleven inches, with the tail-feather of a phoenix. And this one, this I got after someone very dear to me died. It's fifteen inches, made of elder wood, with the hair of a thestral inside."

Malcolm had no idea what the creatures Harry spoke of were, but he enjoyed the light that came to his eyes when he spoke of his world. "Mages use staffs or their hands, from what I've seen."

"Staffs seem... rather cumbersome," Harry murmured, "and I don't know how to do magic without my wand. I wonder how different the magic from our worlds is. I wasn't allowed to speak of it to anyone who didn't previously know. We had this law, see, that kept us separate from muggles—those that didn't have magic. So we were basically a separate society that no one knew about.

"I guess I don't really apply to that law anymore, seeing as I'm, well, _here_." Harry fidgeted, and then paused, a question coming to the forefront of his mind. "How—how do they treat mages, here?" he asked.

Malcolm studied Harry for a while before answering. "Not very well, I'm afraid. I'm ignorant about the real details—I wasn't around many mages growing up, just the odd visitor, but most people seemed afraid of them, and I've heard that the Templars hunt those that run away from the Circle."

Harry swallowed worriedly, "Will they hunt me? When they find out I have magic?"

"Not if they want to live," Malcolm growled. He'd no doubt that should anyone learn of Harry's origins, they'd want to study him and he wouldn't allow that to happen. He saw the way Harry instantly relaxed at his words, and wondered just how they had become so obviously attached to each other in such a short time.

They sat there for a while, Harry quietly telling Malcolm about the world he lived in while tracing the lines on the older man's large hand. Harry's own were... dainty, in comparison, and the skin much softer. Odin had lain down at Harry's feet and was relaxing in the sound of Harry's voice, his ears flicking every which way as he kept watch over his two humans.

"What kind of dog is he?" Harry asked, his attention drawn to the yawning mabari. The large mouth was lined with razor-sharp teeth, and the dog's jaw looked like it could snap a man's femur with little effort.

Malcolm looked at his Mabari proudly. "He's a mabari war hound. Fierce creature, and strong, too. I don't know a man who'd want to be on the receiving end of a mabari's attack."

Harry laughed. "I'd imagine not, he's huge! He must come up to my chest, at least."

Malcolm turned to look at him, arching an eyebrow in the process. "Oh? That's not saying much, then," he teased. "You're a titchy little thing. I thought you were an elf at first, given how little you are."

Harry glared at his companion. "I am not!" he protested. "It's not my fault you're a giant! What did your mother feed you, anyway?"

Malcolm's expression froze, and Harry tensed in response. He eyed the large man worriedly. "I'm—I'm sorry, if I said something wrong. I didn't mean to upset you—" his voice wasn't much louder than a whisper and he felt a thread of frustration build inside him. He felt like a pregnant woman, with how his emotions were fluctuating. Damn it, he was stronger than this!

Malcolm shook his head and squeezed Harry's hand, preventing him from moving away. "It's nothing," he said lowly. "I—My family was killed recently. Three days ago, in fact."

Harry gaped at him, words failing him for a moment. "That's not—" he protested, "That's not nothing! Your family—who the _fuck_ would do such a thing?"

Malcolm stared at Harry in surprise. He hadn't expected the young man, who had been so docile up until now, to explode in anger on his behalf. "Who the _hell_ had that bright idea? If they were half as nice as you, there's no way that—that—"

Harry's cheeks were flushed with anger and he continued to rage silently, gnashing his teeth. He turned to look at Malcolm with fire in his eyes. "If you don't kill the bastard that did it, I'll hunt him down and make him scream," he promised. "No one—no one deserves that, especially you. It's not—it's not right."

Malcolm swallowed, a lump in his throat. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely. He ducked his head, the tears he'd suppressed since the massacre of his friends and family rising to his eyes. "Thank you," he repeated, the words coming out as a sob.

Harry's own eyes filled with tears, understanding the pain this man went though. He scooted forward as close as he could and carefully wrapped his arms around Malcolm's shoulders, pressing his face into the man's neck. He didn't care that he was practically in the man's lap and he didn't care that he was practically a stranger—all he knew was that this generous, kind man that had ensured his safety without asking anything in return was in pain, and Harry wished to stop it.

Malcolm crushed Harry to him, burying his face in the teen's soft raven hair, and cried, his entire body shuddering with the force of his agony, and Harry cried with him.

Duncan watched from the shadows with saddened pride in his eyes as Malcolm finally let loose the pain he'd been hiding, glad that at least one good thing had come in the wake of so much death.

* * *

"Will I be coming with you?" Harry finally asked. The question—and the answer—had been on Harry's mind the entire morning. Once Malcolm had returned his wand—wands?—to him, he'd used the healing spells he knew to mend the fractures in his ribs, the strained muscles in his neck, and the painful bruises that dotted his entire body. He had looked like he'd been through a meat grinder, but luckily, Madame Pomfrey's lessons had come in handy.

He paused at the thought of the Mediwitch that had ruled the Hogwarts Infirmary with an iron fist. He hoped they were doing okay—that Neville had been able to defeat Nagini, and that he, or someone else, had gathered enough courage to slay Voldemort once and for all, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his decision. That chapter of his life was, gratefully, over. He'd been conscripted for war before he was born, worshipped for an event that ruined his life, and expected to die for the greater good.

He shook himself from his thoughts and focused once more on Malcolm. The man had already grown used to his lapses in attention, and waited patiently for him to regain his bearings.

"Yes," he assured Harry as he rolled up the pad Harry had commandeered during his recovery. They had yet to tell Duncan of his abilities, and Harry often wondered what the man's reaction would be. Would he send him away? Harry hoped not. The elder of the three men had been very kind and patient with Harry, even waiting for him to recover enough before he continued on his journey.

Harry sighed in relief and joy, glad that he would be able to stay with Malcolm. He grinned brightly and helped secure the man's small pack, and cast a featherlight charm on the entire thing. Malcolm looked at him, started at the lack of weight on his back, before shaking his head with a grin at the sheepish look on Harry's face. The green-eyed teen's magic was very useful, from what he'd seen of it, and most of it wasn't even combat-oriented.

Harry had offered to shrink Malcolm's pack earlier, but the taller man had declined, saying that Duncan would be suspicious if his bag suddenly went missing, which would prompt them to giving up Harry's secret before Harry himself was ready. It had been sound reasoning.

Camp was broken quickly that morning, Harry fluttering around and doing what he could, having some experience camping during his time on the run from Voldemort and his lackeys.

He'd cleaned and mended his clothes with a few spells, and they looked as new as ever. He'd even taken to casting a few discreet freshening charms on all three of them, and Odin, though Malcolm had glanced at Harry suspiciously when he felt a light tingle across his skin. He'd snorted at the look of innocence on the green-eyed man's face, not believing it for a second, and went about his business.

Harry had discovered the distinct... lack of facilities that this world had, and thanked all that was holy that he knew loads of personal hygiene charms, having had to use them because Hogwarts didn't have some of what were seen as muggle necessities, like toothbrushes: witches and wizards, instead, used special cleaning and breath-freshening charms (or pre-spelled wands, if they were underage and out of school).

He shuddered to think about what they wiped themselves with, or how often they bathed, and vowed to introduce Malcolm to the wonders of toilet paper.

Duncan returned with a young buck swung over one shoulder, and quickly set about skinning it for their breakfast. Harry offered to cook, knowing that the other men were tired and they deserved a good meal. He also had the advantage of being able to conjure herbs when they, or rather Duncan, weren't looking, and they were sure to enjoy seasoned veal more than bland roasted meat.

Duncan graciously agreed, curious about the cooking of Harry's world, and gave him access to the two pots he carried with him. Harry discreetly transfigured a leaf into a large, flat rock, set it over the fire to warm, and set about rubbing the meat down with herbs and salt, before laying it to cook on the rock's heated surface. He heated some of the fat in another pan and used Malcolm's dagger to dice some wild onions he'd found, caramelizing the vegetable to get rid of the sharp, bitter taste.

Both Malcolm and Duncan watched his practiced movements with astonishment, having only expected a stew, or worse, an inedible dish that they'd have to choke down anyway. When Harry finally sliced into the veal, the two men and their furry companion were practically salivating—in Odin's case, it was literally.

Harry stifled a laugh as his meal was devoured without hesitation, his traveling companions going back for seconds and then thirds. Harry contented himself with one serving, unable to keep up with the other's voracious appetites, and wrapped up the remaining beef to eat on the road, neither man noticing when he cast a preservation charm on it to keep it fresh. He grinned happily; magic was so useful sometimes!

They set out with full stomachs and high spirits. Malcolm, having released some of his pent up anger and grief with Harry the night before, was much more relaxed and even spoke to Duncan several times. Both he and Harry listened while the man told them of the Grey Wardens, a legion of great warriors that existed to battle the darkspawn.

Duncan explained to Harry that the creatures that had chased him that first night were called darkspawn—weak ones, to be sure, but dangerous none the less. He explained about the danger of the taint, and what it could do to the land if left to fester and worse, if it was a Blight.

He told them of Ostagar, and King Cailan's attempt to confront the darkspawn head on, before they penetrated deeper into Ferelden and threatened the many villages.

Harry, having never imagined such things could exist, was horrified. Malcolm was quietly grim.

"So Malcolm will join the Grey Wardens?" Harry asked Duncan. The older man nodded without looking back. Harry looked to his left and studied the side of Malcolm's face.

The two had grown closer over a week of travel, and Harry felt a certain kinship to the man, a trust that he couldn't begin to describe. He wondered if it was fate that ran into the man on his first night in Ferelden. It was hard to imagine—Malcolm going off to fight darkspawn, leaving Harry behind. What would happen if Harry wasn't there? What if Malcolm died, and Harry's magic could have saved him?

Chills slid down his spine at the thought, and his stomach suddenly felt like lead.

"Can anyone join?" Harry asked quietly.

Duncan stopped abruptly and turned to face Harry. His face was stern and his eyes searching. Malcolm, too, was watching him, with something akin to frustration on his features. He didn't want to leave Harry behind—he'd grown used to the teen, to his green eyes, his quiet but reassuring presence. Harry was a balm to his wounded spirit and being without him would, he knew, be like missing his right arm.

"Why do you ask?" Duncan inquired. Harry met his dark eyes without hesitation and took a slow step to his left, pressing into Malcolm's side. Duncan's gaze turned understanding and he let out a slow breath.

"Harry," he began gently, "before anything else, be they scholars or politicians, mage, pick-pocket, or noble, Grey Wardens are warriors. We fight the darkspawn—we battle them, we kill them. I cannot knowingly recruit someone that has no fighting experience, or any way to defend himself."

Harry bit his lip and his eyes felt to Duncan's breastplate. The man's voice saw the young man's nervousness and quieted his voice even more. "I need you to answer me honestly, Harry. Do you have a means to protect yourself?"

Harry's eyes flickered to Duncan's face before fixing onto the ground. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I—yes, I do. I just—I don't want you to send me away. I don't—"

Duncan raised his hand to cut him off. "Grey Wardens come from all walks of life, Harry. We take in thieves, criminals, mages—we offer those who need it and will fight with us our protection. As an order, we are respected, and those who join it become Wardens first and foremost before anything they might have been before—and they are thought no less for it."

Harry's shoulders loosened and sighed. Malcolm looped an arm around his friend's slim waist in support. Green eyes met pale blue for a second, an unspoken conversation taking place, before the connection was lost, and Harry returned his attention to Duncan. The older man wondered if they knew how they looked like that, standing so close together—wondered if they saw the genuine adoration for each other on their features. Probably not.

"I'm a wizard," Harry told the Warden Commander. "It's, well, it's my world's equivalent of a mage, but we aren't as... limited in our practice. Malcolm told me a bit about them-I was afraid that if you knew, you'd tell them, and they'd take me away. The Templars, I think they're called, they don't seem to exist for the protection of the mages themselves, and it doesn't seem like magic-users are treated well at all, and—"

Duncan cut off Harry's ramblings with a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, you have nothing to fear from me. All Grey Warden mages are considered apostates, but legal ones, and are outside the rule of the Chantry and its Templars. If you join, the Circle cannot legally get its hands on you without bringing down the might of the Grey Wardens upon itself."

Harry trembled with relief and Malcolm tugged him closer to his chest. "So I don't have to leave? Malcolm won't go without me?" Duncan smiled.

"No, I'm sure that he won't. I'd be happy to have you join the Grey Wardens, and I will take your word for it that you can defend yourself." He paused in thought, before continuing, "Though, I'd rather like to see the extent of your magic, and what you meant about fewer limitations. Fereldens are somewhat... superstitious, and it would probably be a good idea if I could warn you about what you can and cannot display without ruffling some feathers."

Harry nodded and offered Duncan a tentative smile, which was warmly returned. Malcolm caught his eyes and grinned down at him, before picking him up and spinning him around. Harry let out a startled laugh at the sudden feeling of weightlessness before enjoying an overwhelming rush of delight at the sight of Malcolm's smile.

Duncan chortled loudly at the pair's antics and shook his head. He wondered how they would get along with Alistair, before groaning internally and wondering what he had gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is also at fanfiction.net (id:6415805) and systatic.livejournal.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blanket Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter/J. K. Rowling/Bloomsbury, etc. or Dragon Age/Bioware, etc. and I am not affiliated with them in any way. This story is purely for entertainment value. Some quotes might be taken directly from the game.

A week later, the trio and Odin stood on a hill overlooking the ruins of Ostagar. They were utterly magnificent.

Harry let out a breathy "Wow," at the sight of the afternoon sun reflecting off of white stone towers. The entire structure seemed to glow with an inner radiance despite its obvious age. For Harry, it felt like he was stepping into a piece of history, and judging from the muted look of awe on Malcolm's face, he probably was. It sat upon the lowest point in the hilly lands around it, right on the most accessible entrance to the swampy land beyond.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Duncan asked as he started down the hill towards the entrance, the others trailing after him. "The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It's fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest.

"The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here. This Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall."

Malcolm nodded at Duncan's reasoning while Harry wondered just how large the king's army was.

They approached the entrance quickly and were waved in by guards, who recognized Duncan immediately. Harry's nose wrinkled cutely and he pressed his face against Malcolm's armor-covered arm, groaning in disgust. "Oh, that's vile," he shuddered, much to his friend's amusement. "How can they stand it?"

"It's what hundreds of people and animals living together smell like, Harry."

"I know," the teen whined, "but it's still awful. I swear that I'm going to cast dozens of cleaning charms over the entire place—there has to be millions of germs." More importantly, while Harry's magic bolstered his immune system, he wasn't used to living in such conditions and was more likely to contract sicknesses from this unfamiliar world.

Malcolm chuckled, and Harry enjoyed the low, vibrating rumble. "I can't imagine that I smell like roses either. Give me a few days; water is scarce around here."

Harry blushed and pushed closer to Malcolm as the people—and the odor—around them increased. "But I like the way you smell," Harry confessed. Malcolm smirked down at him.

Duncan, walking ahead, rolled his eyes at their conversation, though his annoyance was belied by the amused smile on his lips. Harry's social awkwardness was oddly endearing. He glanced behind him, nearly laughing when he saw Harry attached to Malcolm's side like a leech, glancing at the world around him like a wide-eyed child. His expression was at odds with the Cousland heir's blank mask.

"Ah, Duncan!" The Warden Commander's musings were interrupted, and his eyes snapped forward in astonishment to see the King himself standing before him in his gold-plated armor. He sighed internally; he should have expected this—Cailan had a certain fascination for the Grey Wardens, and he'd no doubt want to greet a new recruit first-hand.

Harry and Malcolm's attention was drawn away from each other

"Bloody _hell_ ," Harry spluttered incredulously, "is he _seriously_ wearing _gold_ armor? _Shiny gold armor_?" Malcolm stifled a snicker at Harry's barely audible words.

"That's the king, Harry," Malcolm gently scolded, his words carrying no real admonishment.

"Sorry, I couldn't tell. I was rendered momentarily blind by his _sheer magnificence_. It's like looking into the sun," Harry muttered in faked awe. Malcolm struggled to keep a straight face as the King's attention turned to them.

"You must be the new recruit," the king said, walking forward. Malcolm felt oddly satisfied that the king had to look up to him, and silently admitted that the man's armor _was_ overly gaudy.

"Yes, your Majesty," Malcolm replied, accepting the offered hand and gripping it firmly.

"Allow me, to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks." Harry's eyebrow twitched at the king's assumption. _Has he even_ met _the king before?_ The teen glanced towards Duncan to see the man watching the scene with exasperation. Apparently he wasn't new to this King Cailan's attitude.

"Hold on a moment, you look familiar. Ah! You must be Bryce Cousland's youngest! He's spoken about you before. How is he faring?"

Harry winced as he felt Malcolm stiffen against him. The king's hand was released quickly and Malcolm's expression turned to ice. "My father is dead, your Majesty, slaughtered by a traitorous friend."

Cailan looked dumbfounded. "When was this?" he exclaimed, some anger leaking into his words. "Duncan, is what he says true?"

"I'm afraid so, your Majesty," Duncan sighed. "Arl Rendon Howe betrayed Teyrn Bryce Cousland nearly a fortnight ago. Teyrn Cousland had sent his oldest son and troops ahead and waited himself to ride out with Arl Howe's men, who were purposely delayed. Arl Howe's men attacked Castle Cousland the night after the majority of its guard had departed, leaving it defenseless. Fergus Cousland's wife and son were murdered, Teyrn Cousland was injured grievously, and Teyrna Cousland stayed behind to buy time for Malcolm and myself to escape."

Harry felt a fresh wave of sadness well in his chest as he listened to the tale all over again. Duncan's abridged version was no less horrifying than the bloody, heart-breaking narrative he'd heard from Malcolm. He squeezed Malcolm's hand tighter, trying to give what little comfort he could as King Cailan spoke empty platitudes, clearly more concerned with the idea of battling the darkspawn alongside the Grey Wardens.

"Thank you, your Majesty," Malcolm said between gritted teeth. He seriously doubted the king would survive if he kept harping about glory with his head inside his ass, much less bring Arl Howe down. "I must ask, where is my brother?"

Cailan suddenly looked nervous. "I sent him and his men out scouting in the Wilds. He's not due back before the battle, I'm afraid. I'll send out a few men to pull them back, but I can't guarantee that they'll reach them in time. The Wilds are a dangerous place."

Malcolm felt his eye twitch. His brother was a warrior, not a scout. That he had been sent out on such a mission—Maker, the king was an idiot.

Duncan had been just about to excuse his party, sensing Malcolm's understandably deteriorating temper, when Cailan landed eyes on the youngest Cousland's companion. "And who's this?" he asked, leaning in to take in Harry's features, the way that he and Malcolm stood so close together, the smaller tucked under the noble's arm, and how Harry's small hand rested on Malcolm's armored stomach.

It was Harry's turn to stiffen as the Ferelden king invaded his personal space. He didn't like the way the man watched him, and his grip on Malcolm's hand became white-knuckled while his face was a carefully constructed blank slate.

"This is Harry Potter, your Majesty. I conscripted him on my way back from Highever; we'd met on the road and I was impressed with his abilities," Duncan lightly fibbed.

Malcolm was barely restraining himself from glaring at the king, who was staring at Harry—his eyes more interested than they should be—for a longer period than was acceptable. At Duncan's words, however, the king seemed to distance himself; Harry's pretty features were eclipsed by his status as a Grey Warden recruit.

" _Two_ recruits, Duncan? What marvelous news! The more Grey Wardens we have at our side, the greater chance we have! I cannot wait for that glorious moment. The Grey Wardens battle beside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil." He stepped back and smiled at them graciously. Harry suppressed the urge to sneer. "I wish you the best of luck with your Joining, may the Maker watch over you."

Duncan nodded, "Thank you, your Majesty," and motioned for his two wards to follow him.

Harry heaved a great sigh of relief once they were out of sight of the king's entourage and sank into Malcolm's side, the man easily holding him up with a single arm. Duncan gazed at him understandingly.

"Thank you for holding it together back there. I know that King Cailan can be frustrating at times." Malcolm grunted, a bit disgusted with the king's behavior. "Harry, what did you think of him?"

Harry turned to look at the graying man, his expression deadpan. "He's a bloody ponce, that's what I think. He spends too much time with his head in the clouds, and not enough time at how to make every person on the battle-field count. He'll get his men killed with his delusions of grandeur. The Grey Warden's can't be all powerful, and if you're so worried, then it's obvious he's not doing his job."

Duncan frowned at him. "It would not do you good to be seen insulting the king, Harry. Regardless of his demeanor, he is a respected man."

Harry's eyes narrowed in anger, and he stepped away from Malcolm and looked Duncan straight in the eye, "He is not _my_ king, and there is nothing about him that I find worthy of high esteem. With all due _respect_ , sir, I've already been at the forefront of a war—and I'm half your king's age. I first killed at age eleven, thrust into a battle I was ill-prepared for, with thousands, maybe millions, of lives on my shoulders; lives that would have _ended_ had I failed. I do not find the prospect of needless death attractive. Frankly speaking, if someone doesn't beat some common sense into his skull, your little preemptive strike will be _useless_.

"I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression, but I am anything but weak, Warden Commander. Should I actually try, I am capable of bringing Ostagar to ruin within hours—by myself. I speak from experience, regardless of my age." Harry shut his eyes and forcefully relaxed his tense muscles. "I am tired, Duncan. I am tired of leading, of being strong when I shouldn't have to. I am quiet, yes, and I am ineloquent and awkward, and I am ignorant about this world, but that does not mean I am weak."

Harry slowly opened his eyes, suddenly exhausted. He felt Malcolm come up behind him and leaned into the man's welcome embrace. "I have powers at my command that you could only imagine, Duncan," he said, thinking of the wand that had followed him between worlds, of the cloak on his shoulders, ready to become invisible should he pull up the hood, and the ring, inset with a peculiar stone, on his finger. "I am here because I care for Malcolm, and because I have the ability to help you save your country, but I will only help you; I will not do it for you."

Duncan watched him with wide eyes, thoroughly shocked at Harry's words. It was disconcerting to be scolded by someone else after so long of doing it himself, and certainly by so young a person. That a mind like that was hiding behind Harry's hesitant demeanor was astonishing, and Duncan almost felt guilty for his reprimand where he now knew it wasn't warranted. He bowed his head, "I apologize, Harry." He could say nothing else.

Harry smiled sadly, but nodded, accepting the older man's request for forgiveness. He tilted his head upwards, the crown of his head resting against Malcolm's breastplate, and met Malcolm's eyes. He felt a rush of relief when he saw the lack of judgment there, and sighed tiredly.

Malcolm had known, deep down, that Harry was not all he portrayed, and that he, too, had suffered through much in his life. He was determined to give Harry some semblance of happiness, and if that meant withholding his questions and accepting the teen for who he was, inside and out, Malcolm would do that.

Duncan led them to the Grey Warden's camp and gestured to an empty tent. "I suggest you get some rest." His eyes lingered on Harry longer than Malcolm as he spoke. The teen hadn't been prepared for the long journey they'd taken; he'd fallen asleep exhausted each night and woke up bone tired in the morning, but never complained. "I'll meet you in the afternoon. You'll have the morning free to explore the camp before we need to get started on the Joining."

Harry nodded sluggishly and let Malcolm lead him into the tent. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he whispered, pulling open the clasp at his neck. His cloak fell to the floor in a heap.

Malcolm looked over his shoulder from where he was unbuckling his armor, "Think nothing of it, Harry," he said quietly. "You have no reason to apologize."

Harry smiled gratefully and moved to help Malcolm remove his breast plate and greaves, his slender fingers reaching more easily into the narrow cracks than Malcolm's own. Harry told Malcolm to lay out his armor and weapons, much he had done every night after telling Duncan of his abilities, and absently enchanted a cloth to clean and oil the taller man's equipment.

The youngest Cousland watched Harry work his magic with a smile, ever grateful that Harry was willing to take such tasks off his hands. He swept Harry up in his arms just held him for a moment, enjoying the way Harry fit against him. He brushed a kiss against the teen's small ear. "Besides," Malcolm whispered seductively, his breath tickling Harry enough that the raven-haired wizard shivered, breathless at the heat in Malcolm's voice, "I like that you have some fire in you. Mm, very much so." He suddenly chuckled. "A bloody ponce?" he asked as he pulled back to look Harry in the face, amusement dancing in his eyes and the heated air between them dispelled.

Harry flushed and glared at him playfully. He flicked his wand and transfigured the flimsy cots into a large feather bed before clearing the air of the foul smell. Harry was willing to bet the night would be a chilly one and was unwilling to give up his personal space heater, good-natured teasing or not, or risk permanent damage to his olfactory senses. "Well, he is! Just _look_ at him; all he's missing is a sunset background and a shower of rose petals." Harry grimaced, "From the way he acts, one would think he shits daisies, even when there's evidence," he gestured to the air around him, referring to the, thankfully now absent, smell of the latrines, "to the contrary."

Malcolm burst out laughing at the mental image, and was quickly joined in hysterics by Harry. Odin barked and jumped around them.

The sable-haired man calmed himself before crouching and scratching behind the massive dog's ears. "What do you think of King Cailan, hm, Odin?" he asked the hound. He snorted when Odin whined and slapped a paw over his eyes, his cropped ears drooping in shame. "Yes, his armor was ghastly, wasn't it? I'll be sure to never use his fashion consultant; they're positively atrocious at their job."

As a reward, Harry conjured a meaty bone for Odin, and the mabari barked at him thankfully before dragging it to the cushy dog bed Harry had transfigured from a stick, located at the foot of the bed.

Malcolm flopped down on the bed, groaning in pleasure as he sunk into the mattress. "You're a gift, Harry. I'm never letting you go," he proclaimed, his face muffled by a pillow. Harry chuckled as he crawled onto the other side, his eyes already closing in fatigue.

"Mm, can't live without my necessities," he mumbled vainly, scooting over to snuggle against Malcolm's warm side.

The tall man's grin softened as he gaze down at Harry's slumbering form, before he wrapped a secure arm around his companion's waist, laid a gentle kiss on the smooth forehead, and settled in for a much needed sleep.

* * *

Malcolm awoke early the next morning, but was in no hurry to leave the warmth of the transfigured bed. Sometime during the night, Harry had rolled on top of him, using him like a giant pillow. Malcolm smiled at the sight of the sweet face, relaxed in sleep. The strain around the teen's eyes had vanished, and he looked even more beautiful as a result.

Malcolm knew their behavior was odd, even irrational, but he couldn't help but feel that Harry was his—his to protect, his to cherish. He reached up a run a hand through Harry's soft raven hair, and tugged softly to wake the young wizard.

"Mm," Harry hummed sleepily, moving to bury his face in Malcolm's neck. The noble chuckled and tugged Harry's messy locks more firmly. The tired teen whined in protest, "Bad Malcolm! 'Lemme 'lone!"

"It's time to get up, Harry," Malcolm rumbled.

Harry locked his arms around the warrior's neck, molding his body to Malcolm's, and refused to open his eyes. "Nooo," he grumbled. "Comfy, warm. Sleepy sleep."

Malcolm sighed, his eyes drifting to the ceiling of the tent in silent prayer, before he threw the duvet off of them, and ignoring Harry's indignant squeal, he stood from the bed, the wizard still twined around him like a human sweater.

"I'll go outside like this if I have to, Harry," Malcolm growled. The threat was an empty one; there was no way he'd allow sexually deprived soldiers to get a glimpse of Harry's pale flesh. Harry knew this, and only held onto him tighter, wiggling his hands under Malcolm's sleeping shirt to keep them from the cold air.

"Malcolm," he begged, "I'm still tired." He'd gotten little sleep during their journey. The pace at which Duncan had forced them to travel had pushed him to his limits; he'd had to heal blisters on his feet more than once, even with the cushioning charms cast on his boots. He just wanted to rest, preferably on his Malcolm-pillow.

The tall man sighed and sat down on a roughly hewn stool and wrapped his arms around the bundle in his lap. "I know, my sweet," he said understandingly. Harry smiled against his neck at the endearment. Malcolm was so gentle with him; he enjoyed the man's attention, which was so unlike the overwhelming stares of his former home. "You can rest more later on, but you need food in you—you're far too thin already. Plus, I'm sure you'd appreciate the opportunity to clean up before Duncan comes to get us."

Harry pulled back slightly to meet Malcolm's eyes, pouting cutely. "Promise?" he asked. Malcolm smiled at the weak manipulation, but gave in nonetheless.

"I promise," he swore. Harry grinned and bounced on his lap before jumping up and looking for one of his wands.

"I want a hot bath," the wizard stated, already waving the dark wood of his Holly wand through the air in intricate patterns. Malcolm watched, amazed, as a white, claw-footed bath-tub seemed to spring from thin air, and then water shot from the tip of the wand in a rapid stream, before cutting off. Seconds later, steam rose from the bathtub, and Harry conjured various soaps that floated in the air, waiting to be used.

The sable-haired teen grinned at him mischievously, before flicking his wand once more; a curtain appeared to section off Harry's bathing area, though it didn't stop Malcolm from watching Harry's silhouette disrobe and slowly sink into the water. He stiffened at the teen's low, pleased moan.

He cleared his throat, forcefully dragging his eyes away from the thin fabric. "I'll, um, be back later," he called, before speeding out of the tent, Harry's wicked laughter echoing in his wake.

* * *

It was official: Harry hated Ostagar.

Besides the god awful smell, he'd been—rudely—introduced to the locals. The gathered soldiers had no sense of privacy. More than once since Malcolm had departed, he'd had to yell someone out of his tent when they'd peeked inside, trying to get a look at the new recruit and almost succeeding in getting an eyeful of Harry's naked backside, instead. He fumed silently, pacing at the foot of the transfigured bed clad in only a bath robe, his hair still damp. Malcolm would be returning any moment, and he couldn't wait to see the man's expression at learning Harry had practically been spied on while in the bath.

Harry knew it uncharacteristic of him, or of anyone, really, to be so close to another after only two weeks, but he liked the connection between Malcolm and himself, and saw no reason to discourage it. It was quick, and confusing, and, when thought about logically, seemingly impossible, but Harry _wanted_ this odd relationship between the two of them. He wasn't entirely sure what to call it at the moment, but it was comforting to know that Malcolm would be there for him no matter what, a feeling that probably went both ways. The warrior made him feel secure, and Merlin knew that he gave the _greatest_ hugs, and the way he _looked_ at Harry with those hungry blue eyes made him feel all gooey and warm and tingly and—

The moment Malcolm ducked underneath the tent flap, Harry leaped at him, arms and legs wrapping around the tall man. The weight didn't even faze Harry's companion, and he struggled to catch Harry's rapid speech and ignore the way he could feel every _inch_ of Harry beneath his thin bathrobe. "Oh Merlin, these _men_ kept coming into our tent while I was in the _bath_ , trying to figure out who we were and it was so _uncomfortable_ , and they _wouldn't leave_ until I started yelling and I didn't have any _clothes_ on and they kept _pissing_ me _off_ —"

Malcolm cut him off with a hand over his mouth, his eyes dark. "They _what_?" he hissed. Harry rubbed his cheek against the man's stubble, almost purring.

"They kept invading my privacy," Harry said, speaking more slowly now that he had Malcolm's attention, "while I was in the bath."

The noble practically _growled_ , sounding rather like his mabari hound. Odin had picked up on his master's anger and was prowling outside the tent's entrance, scaring off any prospective peeping toms.

Malcolm knew word had spread about how Duncan had brought back not one, but _two_ Grey Warden recruits, but had figured that most would give them the distance they deserved. Apparently not.

Harry looked up at him with imploring green eyes and Malcolm suddenly _knew_ he'd walked into a trap, but he couldn't find it in himself to give a damn, because Harry was so _ridiculously_ adorable and he'd been _peeked_ on while in the _bath_ —

" _You_ ," he demanded, "will _not_ leave my side at any time, understand?" Harry beamed at him, knowing he'd won.

"Okay," he chirped, unwinding his limbs and hopping off Malcolm, acting for all the world like he hadn't been upset earlier. Malcolm knew better; he'd already gleaned that Harry was an intensely private person, and having strangers invade his personal space bugged him. A lot.

He raised an eyebrow when Harry pointed at the impromptu bathing area he'd set up. "Bath, now," the wizard ordered. Malcolm shrugged and complied, dropping a kiss on Harry's forehead and his shirt on the ground.

He found that Harry had enlarged the bathtub to better fit someone of his stature, and refreshed and reheated the water. He sighed as he sunk into the porcelain tub, immediately grabbing a rag and scrubbing away the accumulated dirt on his skin. It felt wonderful to have a hot bath after two weeks of hard travel, and especially after the night of his parent's murder. If it weren't for Harry and his magic, he'd probably still be covered in remnants of the blood of Howe's men.

He grabbed a bar of soap that smelled of sandalwood, skipping right over the more fruity options, and cleaned himself quickly. Harry's chatter filled the background comfortably as the younger man mused on what he would change his clothes into that day.

"Make sure it's suitable for battle," Malcolm said as he toweled himself dry. "Preferably thick enough to keep you safe. I don't know if you'll be comfortable in armor—you don't really need anything but protection against arrows."

He eyed the underclothes Harry had prepared for him. They were of a finer knit than even his court clothing, and he wondered just what kind of world Harry came from that afforded him such comforts.

Harry waved him over and asked him what would prevent arrows from hurting him. "You'll bruise if they hit you, no matter what. Leather is weak against it, and plate is too cumbersome for you. I recommend putting a thin layer of mail between the layers of your clothing, if you can, and make it stronger so the links don't shatter against the force of the arrowhead."

Harry scratched his cheek in thought, his imagination running wild, before he started waving his wand. He used the clothes he had been wearing as a base, and conjured a layer of finely knit mail underneath the outer dragon hide and over the inner layer of silk. He hit the entire outfit with unbreakable, lightening, and cushioning charms and declared himself ready to go.

Malcolm was impressed with the result when the outfit resisted his attempts to puncture it with a dagger, and declared it satisfactory. Harry even decided to similarly charm his armor and weapons.

The chestnut-haired man turned to look at Harry after donning his armor, reveling in the lack of weight. He grinned, "You are, officially, the best thing that has ever happened to me." Of course, he'd have to adjust to the change in his center of gravity, but it would be worth it in the long run: his armor was nigh impenetrable, and light as a feather. He knew men that would _kill_ to get their hands on such equipment.

Harry raised a sardonic eyebrow, "And you're just realizing this?"

Malcolm chuckled in appreciation before his expression became serious. "Harry," he declared, "I don't want you to let anyone know you can do this. Wars have been started over less, and if _anyone_ with an agenda finds out about your abilities, minus the combat magic, you'll be targeted."

Harry looked nervous at Malcolm's words and moved into to the comfort the noble's arms provided. "I know you can defend yourself, and I will be with you every step of the way, but accidents _do_ happen, and someone could get lucky, so please, _promise me_ that you'll be discreet."

"I promise, Malcolm," the raven-haired wizard whispered. Malcolm sighed before reaching for Harry's hand and pressing a soft kiss on the palm. Harry blushed at the intimacy of the gesture.

"Good," Malcolm said, relieved. "Good."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blanket Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter/J. K. Rowling/Bloomsbury, etc. or Dragon Age/Bioware, etc. and I am not affiliated with them in any way. This story is purely for entertainment value. Some quotes might be taken directly from the game.

Harry and Malcolm left their tent a little before noon, having skipped breakfast in favor of spending more time together. They stopped by the mess area for a bite to eat and were promptly handed a serving of stew and hard, crusty bread by the elves before being shuffled along. After commandeering an empty log to sit on, they stared despairingly into their bowls.

Malcolm sighed. "You've ruined me for life, Harry," he declared, poking at the tough meat and overcooked vegetables. Grease had already started to collect at the top, forming an unappetizing film over the entire dish. Harry hummed in agreement, swallowing down the meal and throwing the bread to Odin. The wizard nearly gagged at the flavor.

"That's foul," he grimaced. In all honesty, dirt tasted a fair bit better than whatever they'd been served. "Right—I'll sneak some food from the stores tonight and prepare it myself. I don't know if I can choke that down again."

Malcolm nodded quickly, eager for any excuse to eat Harry's cooking. He kissed Harry's brow in thanks when the wizard cast a discreet breath-freshening charm on both of them and the pair sauntered off to explore the camp for a few hours.

Harry almost immediately tugged Malcolm to the kennels. The slender teen ooh'ed and aww'ed over the gorgeous dogs, which all preened in delight at the compliments paid to them. Odin watched on jealously, and stared down the other mabari, clearly stating his claim on the two humans. Malcolm simply shook his head in amusement.

The met the kennel master, a dark complexioned and rather plain looking man, who spent most of the time admiring Odin's powerful form. Harry had noticed that Malcolm's mabari was a fair bit larger than most in the kennels. While he lacked the fierce-looking war paint the others had, he made up for it in sheer muscle.

He warned them about the taint, and told them to make sure that Odin didn't swallow any darkspawn blood. "Say, he hasn't been out to fight the darkspawn yet, has he?" Malcolm shook his head. "Good, good," the man said, relieved. "Means I can warn yeh against letting him bite the nasty creatures. Their blood be poisonous, I tell yeh. Lost more 'n one good dog to the taint."

Harry frowned worriedly. "Is there any way it can be prevented?" he asked.

The dark-haired man folded his arms, thinking. "Aye. If yeh be going out into the Wilds any time soon, there are some flowers that I've been using to prevent the taint. Wouldn't be easy for me to lose any o' ma' dogs to it, yeh see; they're like ma' children. The flowers be white with a dark red center, you'll find 'em growing near dead wood most o' the time. I'd go out there mahself if I had the means to, but I ain't no warrior, just a breeder."

Harry nodded. "We'll make sure to pick as many as we can, should we be out there."

The kennel master grinned, "Great! I'd be much obliged, sers, if yeh could do me that small favor. I'd love to stay longer, but one of the dogs is sick. Tryin' to muzzle 'im but he's fightin' it. Best o' luck to the both o' yeh," he called, walking off.

Harry looked up at Malcolm, concerned. "If Duncan doesn't send us out there, we'll need to find a way to get those flowers. I'm sure that Odin will swallow darkspawn blood at one point or another. I'd rather he not be affected by it." Malcolm nodded thoughtfully.

They spent the next few hours exploring the camp and met a few Grey Wardens on the way. Some were young—and talked incessantly, and some were old, around Duncan's age—and didn't talk much at all, just welcomed them and then waved them away. Harry noticed how none of the Grey Wardens seemed to be older than their mid-fifties, and wondered why.

"Well, if all else fails," Harry quipped as they were wandering past the latrines, "we could get lucky and the smell might scare off the darkspawn before they reach us." Malcolm snorted.

Overall, Ostagar wasn't anything to write home about; Harry detested the smell and the way people stared at them—gossip-hungry vultures seemed to exist in every world—so he spent his time admiring the architecture of the ruins themselves.

"I think—" Harry said out of the blue while they were standing outside the mage's encampment. "I think whoever built this used magic; it feels like it. Kind of like the stone under my feet is a little alive." He remembered the feeling—it was nothing compared to Hogwarts, which had been soaking in ambient magic for centuries, but it was still a welcomed reminder of home.

"You are correct," said a monotone voice from behind them. Harry jumped and he and Malcolm whipped around to look at the speaker. It was a mage, judging from their dress, but what really bothered Harry was the eerie blankness on his face, in his eyes—like he felt no emotion. "The Tevinter Imperium was a powerful magocracy in ancient times. Ostagar itself is a relic of that time and still resonates with the echoes of the magic used to create it."

The mage sounded like he was reciting from a text; his words carried no inflection, no feeling whatsoever. Harry felt chills travel down his spine. He forced a smile on lips, "Thank you for answering my question. If you don't mind me asking, are you a mage of the Circle?"

The Tranquil's expression remained slack, "I am a Tranquil." He gave no further information.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. What was a Tranquil? What sort of barbaric magic was the Circle dabbling in? The title alone caused him some alarm. "What is that?" he asked, hoping for more information. Harry drew comfort from Malcolm's steady presence at his side.

"I am an apprentice mage who has gone through the Rite of Tranquility, and am thusly disconnected from the Fade. As a result, I am unable to dream or feel emotion. I find it to be peaceful, compared to the irrationality of my previous existence."

Harry recoiled, feeling sick as realization struck him. _Oh Merlin, what manner of abomination is this? What right do they have to do that?_ Could they do that to _him_ , if he was captured? Harry shuddered, the Circle seeming much more dangerous than before.

To have no emotion, to feel no happiness, no pain—he turned to look at Malcolm, desperation on his features—to feel no love; it was unthinkable. Without emotion, or the ability to _want_ , there was _no magic_. Harry had no idea what the Fade was, but if Harry's ability for emotion was destroyed, his core would literally collapse in on itself, and with it, his life.

The noble took in Harry's shuddering form and resisted the urge to strangle the unfeeling Tranquil, and the Circle in general. He gathered the small wizard into his arms and, ignoring the stares from his fellow soldiers, turned and took Harry back to their tent.

Harry curled against Malcolm, his magic banishing the armor from the warrior's form as soon as they were alone, and pressed as close to the other man as possible. "They took it away from him," he whispered against Malcolm's corded neck, trying to imagine a world where the feel of the magic in his veins was gone. He couldn't; that magnificent energy had always been there, a warm presence hovering on the edge of his senses. "They _stole_ his magic."

Malcolm couldn't truly comprehend what Harry meant, but he held the wizard close to his chest anyway. Harry's fists gripped the fabric of Malcolm's shirt. The wizard had to make him _understand_. It was disgusting, what the Circle did. Harry's stomach churned violently. Had this happened in his world, the practice would have been shut down without a thought. It went against his every instinct and he fought the agitated tug underneath his skin. _Do something!_ His magic screamed. _Eliminate the threat!_

"Malcolm," he said, "if—if they did that to me, I would _die_. I _cannot_ survive without my magic. These mages—they aren't tied to theirs like the people in my world are. It's literally in my blood. If they find a way to take that away from me, I _won't_ survive it."

Malcolm's face froze, Harry's reaction finally making sense. His Harry, his beautiful little green eyes—if the Circle decided he was a threat... _Oh Maker,_ he silently prayed, cradling the back of Harry's head like it was made of glass, _do not let them discover a way to hurt Harry._

Harry shut his eyes tightly. _Why can't anything be easy, for once?_

* * *

Duncan came to get them a few hours later, when the sun was finally starting its slow descent. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden board propped up on the side of tent for just that purpose, and called out, "Malcolm, Harry, you're needed outside."

The graying man heard some shuffling inside before Malcolm's large form appeared, pushing aside one of the tent flaps. The noble was in full armor—most likely in anticipation of his visit—and looked decidedly imposing. The young man had avoided weighing himself down with the entirety of his plate during their travels, preferring to just wear the essentials and carry the rest. His longsword and shield was slung over his shoulders and two sets of daggers—one on the outside of each thigh and two on his lower back—were within easy reach. Malcolm's already broad, muscled form was made even more impressive by the gilded shoulder, elbow, and arm guards, from which protruded lovingly-crafted but deadly sharp folds of metal.

"Come in," the warrior said lowly, turning away without waiting for an answer.

The Warden Commander's eyebrows rose in astonishment as he entered the tent and skirted around a large privacy screen just inside the entrance, his eyes finally landing on the lavish furnishings inside. He'd scarcely seen furniture so fine in the royal castle in Denerim itself, much less in a simple army tent.

Harry sat cross-legged upon the large, four-poster bed that dominated the tent. Malcolm moved to stand in the corner, hovering like a vengeful shadow as Harry gestured Duncan to take a seat in comfortable looking chair. By the way the noble watched his movements, the Commander knew he had a long way to go before he was over his family's death. It was obvious that he was unwilling to take chances with Harry's safety.

Duncan had the sudden feeling that he didn't have as much command over the two men as he had previously thought, Grey Warden recruits or not. Oddly enough, it didn't much bother him.

He watched as Harry glanced at Malcolm and rolled his eyes. "Stop hovering like a great, overgrown bat. Come here," he said, patting the bed beside him. Malcolm moved to Harry's side, but did not sit; presumably because his gear made it hard to. Duncan marveled at how little the noise the man made; plate was not a quiet armor, yet he had moved as it clothed in leather.

Harry turned back to Duncan, satisfied with Malcolm close to him. "I don't mean to keep you, but I have some questions I need you to answer before we go any further." Duncan looked thoughtful for a moment before he nodded his head for Harry to continue.

It was Malcolm that spoke first. "Do the Grey Wardens have any sort of protection from the Circle of Magi?"

Duncan looked at him, uncomprehending. "Why exactly would he need protection beyond what has already been offered?"

Harry looked afraid. "I, well, I met a Tranquil today."

Realization suffused Duncan's features and he suddenly looked very old and very sad. "Ah, yes. The Rite of Tranquility. I will not pretend to agree with the practices of the Chantry and its Templars."

"You mean it's not the Circle of Magi who performs the Rite?"

"It is indeed, lad, but the Templars are the ones that enforce it. The Circle of Magi is more than just watched over by the Templars; it is policed by them. A Templar has the ability to drain and contain a mage's abilities. It is how magic is controlled by the Chantry. Magi are doubly susceptible to demonic possession, as magic is a result of a strong connection to the Fade. If an apprentice mage is not believed to be strong enough to resist the lure of a demon, they are subjected to the Rite of Tranquility."

Harry frowned, both at the powers of the Templars and the Fade. What right did the Chantry have to control magi? It should be up to the mage what they do with it; it was _their_ gift, after all. "The Tranquil mentioned the Fade, but I've no idea what it is."

"The magi believe it is the plane where our souls travel to and reside in while we dream. However, it is also home to demons and spirits, who often look for ways out. Weak-willed magi provide that way."

Harry glanced at Malcolm, who met his gaze evenly. Through mutual consent, they decided not to tell Duncan that the Rite could possibly kill Harry. "I don't think my magic works quite like that," Harry carefully said, turning back to Duncan. "But it's only expected, since I don't come from your world."

Duncan hummed an affirmation, scratching his beard in contemplation. "As a Grey Warden, you are protected from Templar law. However, I am unsure about how Templar abilities will affect you and I'm not eager to find out; it is best you avoid them for now."

Harry found himself agreeing. The only person that had a right to touch his magic was himself, and any Templar that thought otherwise would face his wrath.

"Thank you, Duncan," he said, hopping off of the bed. "I just had a few concerns, and you were the only person I knew I could ask."

Duncan smiled down at him, "It's understandable, Harry. You are new to our culture. The Rite of Tranquility or the true relationship between Templars and Magi are not common knowledge. As a Grey Warden, however, it would be a good idea for you to have this knowledge."

Harry and Malcolm nodded as they led the way out of the tent.

"Now, for the reason I came here; I have a job for you and the other recruits. It's imperative this be completed before the Joining. Malcolm, if you could go find Alistair, one of our junior Grey Wardens, and meet me at the bonfire, I'd appreciate it. In the meantime, I need to speak to Harry about his abilities."

Malcolm looked ready to protest, not wanting Harry to leave his side, but Harry placed a comforting hand on his arm, careful to avoid any sharp edges. "I'll be fine, Malcolm," he whispered, looking up at the noble. He sighed in contentment when Malcolm traced his cheekbone with a gentle hand.

"If you insist," he said. Malcolm dropped a kiss on Harry's forehead, an action that was quickly becoming commonplace, and departed, presumably to ask after Warden Alistair.

"What do you wish to speak about?" Harry queried, returning his attention to Duncan, completely unembarrassed about the interaction that had just taken place between him and Malcolm.

Duncan, tactfully, said nothing of it.

* * *

Malcolm was irritated. He'd not only been sent on a wild goose chase, but Harry had _stayed_ with Duncan. He felt... itchy, without the wizard at his side—and it was showing, mostly in his fraying temper. Plus, this Alistair guy was proving to be a slippery menace. He'd already asked seven people for his whereabouts, and they'd all proven as helpful as the last. Luckily, he ran into a fellow Grey Warden recruit named Daveth, who had been attempting to romance a pretty female soldier by the quartermaster.

 _Attempting,_ being the key word.

He scowled as he ascended a steep ramp to the old temple. Once Daveth had stopped being so chatty, he'd informed Malcolm that Alistair had just walked by on an errand for the Revered Mother. He'd seen the old crone earlier that day, ranting about the Maker to anyone that would listen. He didn't doubt that she'd be able to talk someone into committing suicide, just to get away from her voice.

Sure enough, a man, probably his age and clothed in well-worn splitmail, was tormenting a rather frustrated mage, and looking to be having a hell of a time.

Malcolm sighed and leaned back on a weathered pillar, crossing his arms, and waiting for the bickering to end. His thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Harry, and then his brother, and finally, his dead family.

"You know," the man turned to him after successfully driving the mage off and dragging him back to the present, "the best thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." He eyed Malcolm, as if trying to place his face. Surely he couldn't be that slow; who else in the camp matched his description? It was all anyone talked about right now: the tragic tale of the youngest Cousland.

Malcolm merely glared, in no mood to put up with the man's repartee. He grimaced internally at his own attitude; he was horribly testy when he didn't have an adorable green-eyed wizard clinging to his arm. Harry would be delighted, the little minx.

"Right," Malcolm said, ignoring the man's words. "Duncan sent me to find you."

"Ah!" the man exclaimed, as if finally realizing who he was. "You must be the new recruit Duncan brought. Malcolm, was it?"

The noble nodded, not interested in speaking further.

Alistair quirked an eyebrow, "Cheerful thing, aren't you? Rather big, too. I bet _you_ ate your vegetables when you were little."

Malcolm felt a muscle in his jaw twitch in irritation. Did this guy have an off button, or would he have to sew the idiot's mouth shut? He wasn't much good with needle point. It must be a Grey Warden thing—Maker forbid he ever prattle on like a brainless simpleton—since the young ones never seemed to _shut up_.

"Okay," the junior Grey Warden said, holding up his hands in entreaty. "No joking with the guy that could probably toss me across Ferelden with his pinky. Got it. Look, I'm Alistair, and since you look like you want to get going, I'll gather the rest of the recruits and see you in at the bonfire." He turned to leave, but glanced back at the last second, unable to resist a parting shot, "Oh, and try not to scare the Templars with your glares; they tend to weep. It's frowned upon, you see—tarnishes their armor, and Maker forbid they not be as shiny as possible."

Malcolm rolled his eyes and left, eager to get back to Harry. Who knew people could be so _irritating_?

* * *

The moment he arrived at the bonfire, he felt a weight crash into him. He glanced down as Harry virtually crawled up his armor to look him in the face. "Malcolm," he crowed in delight.

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards and Harry grinned, leaning in to rub his cheek against Malcolm's stubble. The taller man didn't understand the wizard's fascination with his facial hair, but he wasn't protesting it; he was quite amenable to whatever Harry wanted.

He wrapped an around Harry so the wizard sat on his forearm, and his slender legs wrapped around Malcolm's waist. They probably looked a sight to the other recruits, who had arrived after Harry's attempt to tackle him, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when Harry had started to pepper his jaw with sweet little kisses.

"Missed you," Harry mumbled against his skin, his tongue flicking out teasingly. Malcolm growled lowly and tightened his hold on Harry in reply.

Their attention was drawn away from each other by a cleared throat. In an impressive display of flexibility, Harry bent backwards at the waist and met Duncan's eyes with an upside-down smile, still twined around Malcolm. "Yes?" he asked charmingly, his eyes large and green and innocent. The Warden Commander wasn't fooled for a second.

"I'd appreciate it if you would pay attention; what I've to say is of great importance, and not only to your Joining, but to the future of Ferelden in general." The graying man's expression held none of the good humor Harry had come to associate with the man, so Harry acquiesced to his demands and unwrapped himself from Malcolm. Once on the ground, and in his customary position against Malcolm's side, he looked to Duncan.

"Thank you. First, I'd like to introduce you to each other. This is Alistair," he said, gesturing to the attractive young man to his right. Harry thought he looked rather like King Cailan, though significantly less ostentatious. "He is the junior Grey Warden that will be accompanying you on your task."

"Pleasure," Alistair drawled, giving a small twist of his hand and a bow. Harry grinned in reply, liking the man's playful eyes. His smile widened when he felt more than saw Malcolm glare at the man.

"Jealous, dear Malcolm?" Harry leaned up to whisper. Even on his toes, he was only as tall as Malcolm's shoulder. The noble glanced down at him with a raised eyebrow.

"No," he growled back. "You're mine," he said, as if that answered everything. Harry supposed it did.

Duncan then introduced Ser Jory, a knight from Recliffe—whatever that was. He was a stocky, balding man. Harry thought he looked nice enough, and he was polite. Daveth—a "fellow from Denerim," Duncan had said—entertained him. The wizard had caught sight of the fading red mark on the man's cheek and wondered what he'd done to get it there. He had quick hands and an even quicker tongue.

Duncan finally turned to them, "This is Malcolm Cousland, from Highever." Alistair, Ser Jory, and Daveth's eyes turned to Malcolm, taking in his large stature and expensive armor, as one would expect from the son of a Teyrn—and who was probably now a Teyrn himself—and then the figure on his arm. Harry bristled at the disdain in their eyes. What did they think he was? A pleasure slave? As if!

"Pleased to meet you, your Grace," Jory bowed. Malcolm nodded in response.

"And lastly," Duncan said, "we have Harry Potter." Silence, save for the crackling of the fire in front of them.

"Wait, _he's_ a _recruit_?" Alistair asked. Harry bared his teeth at him, his eyes spitting green fire. Any appreciation for the junior Warden's humor died a vicious death at the man's lack of tact. What was wrong with him? Was it because he was _short_?

"Got a problem with that, you great git? I could crush you like a bug!" Harry hissed at him, stomping his foot in agitation. Alistair squawked in indignation.

"Git? _Git_? I'll show you a _git_!" Alistair made to take a step forward but Malcolm's hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword stopped him. He met the noble's eyes and paled at the threat he saw there. The warrior was ready to separate Alistair's head from his shoulders, should he prove a threat to Harry.

"Enough!" Duncan roared, his voice snapping the men out of their squabble. He glared at all three. "You are all adults, act like it! The Grey Wardens do not need your childish bickering to tarnish our reputation! We're having enough trouble as it stands. Malcolm, you _will not_ attack your fellows." The look in Malcolm's eyes didn't comfort him, but he did remove his hand from his sword—slowly.

"Harry, Maker, _you_ of all people should know better." Duncan's voice had started to calm. He turned to Alistair, "Alistair, you should be an example to these four. You should not have let your temper get the best of you; I find myself disappointed in you."

Alistair flinched at the reprimand and bowed his head. "Sorry, Duncan," he whispered. Harry frowned and looked away, pressing his cheek against the cold metal of Malcom's breastplate, feeling a bit guilty. Alistair must really look up to Duncan, for Commander's words to carry such weight with him. He knew the feeling. He sighed when Malcolm's strong hand found its way into his hair.

"Now, if you're all quite done, I'd like to continue. I'm sending you out into the Wilds."

The five men listened as Duncan explained what their venture into the swampy forest, called the Kocari Wilds, beyond Ostagar was for: each recruit would be given an empty vial, which they were to fill it with darkspawn blood; secondly, they were to find and investigate an old Grey Warden archive, and retrieve four old treaties that promised the Wardens the military support of elves, dwarves, mages, and men should a Blight occur.

"The treaties are essential," the Commander stated. "If we do not retrieve them, we will not have enough manpower to combat the Blight. Ferelden _must_ be united; the Grey Wardens alone are simply not enough anymore."

Harry nodded solemnly. "Understood," he said. "When do we leave?"

"Now," Duncan replied. "Gather your supplies as quickly as possible and meet at the south gate. You will most likely find yourself in battle; I trust you know how to prepare for it. Alistair, as a Grey Warden, will guide you through out your task."

Harry couldn't resist giving the junior Warden the stink eye, enjoying the way he bristled at the clear insult. No one, _no one_ insulted Harry's height.

Malcolm tugged on his hair as they walked back to their tent for supplies. "Behave," the man rumbled. Harry pouted up at him.

"But he's so _easy_ to rile up," he whined, flopping onto a stool. He'd had to release the spells cast on their pallets to prevent heart-attacks or fits of jealously should anyone enter their tent in their absence. Malcolm chuckled as he gathered food—which lazily Harry cast preservation charms on—and bandages and health poultices, and then stuffed them in his pack.

Harry wouldn't take no for an answer this time when he insisted that he shrink their packs. "You're going to be fighting," he reasoned. "You don't need a backpack, lightened or not, getting in your way." Then he batted his eyelashes at Malcolm, and coyly said, "Imagine if I got captured by a dashingly handsome bandit and you couldn't get to me because your pack got snagged by a tree branch and you were left hanging there while I, innocent in the ways of the world, was subjected to _wicked, wicked_ things, hm?"

Malcolm snorted at Harry's theatrics and grabbed the teen's chin, forcing his face upwards. "I doubt you'd have any trouble rescuing both of us, should that happen," he retorted, his breath washing against Harry's lips, "isn't that right, little wizard?"

Harry's breath hitched at Malcolm's proximity, and he leaned in the slightest bit. The air instantly turned heavy between them. He could almost _feel_ the man's lips against his and Harry _swore_ he wouldn't get away this time—just a little more and— _ohgods_ finally _!_

Malcolm crushed his mouth against Harry's, devouring the gorgeous man beneath him. The taste and feel of Harry _exploded_ upon his senses; it was even better than he had imagined.

He bit and nibbled and soothed, coaxing that delicious, moist cavern into opening. Harry moaned— _moremoremore!_ —as Malcolm's tongue thrust into his mouth and boldly tangled with his own, his arms crushing the wizard to his chest. _Nothing_ was as good as this— _this_ was bliss, pure unadulterated _bliss_ and—

 _Ohhhh_ , that was _nice._

Malcolm's hungry lips had descended to his neck, and he sucked an angry red mark right above Harry's collar, before trailing his way back up over the teen's jaw and right back to that delectable red mouth.

He mewled pitifully—his arms, which had wound around the taller man's neck, weakly trying to pull the warrior back—when Malcolm pulled away, his breathing only slightly labored. Harry, on the other hand, was a mess; his hair was mussed, lips bruised and swollen, and eyes hazy with pleasure. Malcolm's eyes consumed the sight greedily.

"You're mine," Malcolm growled against his ear, nipping at the lobe. Harry nodded incoherently; _anything_ to get that mouth back on his. Merlin, he'd parade through the camp in a tutu and glitter if _only Malcolm would just kiss him again!_

He was disappointed, however, when Malcolm released him altogether, leaving Harry to melt into a pathetic pile of over-pleasured goo in the middle of their tent.

"The others are waiting," Malcolm said, reaching out and pulling the unresisting teen along. Harry almost tripped over his own feet, his mind still fuzzy from the way Malcolm had tried to practically suck out his soul through his mouth.

 _He'd make a good dementor,_ Harry thought, and giggled.

Later, Harry noticed the way that Malcolm glared at Alistair as soon as he came into sight, pulling the wizard closer to him. The teen smirked, his still-swollen lips threatening to break into a grin.

Not jealous? Yeah _right_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blanket Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter/J. K. Rowling/Bloomsbury, etc. or Dragon Age/Bioware, etc. and I am not affiliated with them in any way. This story is purely for entertainment value. Some quotes might be taken directly from the game.

"You ready to go?" Alistair asked the gathered four in front of him. He avoided meeting Malcolm's gaze as he checked them all over. He frowned at the the absence of Harry and Malcolm's supplies. "Where are your packs? You can't seriously believe you're going out there without supplies, right?"

Harry merely smirked at him as his fingertips traced abstract patterns on Malcolm's breastplate. "Where they are is for me to know, and you to find out. Don't worry your empty little head about it." Odin barked an agreement.

The junior Warden glared at him before turning away and walking towards the large wooden gate that barred the camp from the Wilds—or the Wilds from the camp. "Whatever," he grumbled. "It's your funeral. But don't expect any of us to share with you."

Harry shrugged in response, ignoring how Malcolm's hand on his hip tightened in warning, and followed his annoyed companions out into the darkening land beyond.

* * *

Harry was a bit perturbed at the way Alistair hung near the back of their group, letting the more inexperienced recruits lead the way through the chilly, humid marshes.

Malcolm had taken point, most probably because he was more equipped to deal with an onslaught of enemies. Daveth, who turned out to be a former cut-purse, acted as the scout, using his superior speed and stealth to scope out the territory, and the archer. Harry imagined that Jory, with his two-handed broadsword, and Alistair, who also had a sword and shield, would pick off the enemies while Malcolm held their attention.

Harry grimaced at the dread that gripped him. He hated that Malcolm would be in the midst of battle; even though he knew the noble could handle himself.

Harry, himself, had not yet left Malcolm's side, though he was no longer glued to it for the sake of maneuverability. He made sure to stay within arm's length, both for his sake and Malcolm's, who looked reluctant to even have him near possible danger.

They were slowly slogging through damp, muddy earth that clung to boots and made strange sucking sounds with every step. The party's mood, which had been energetic and ready for action at the start of their quest, quickly sank after they were faced with the inevitable trek through swamps and clouds of hungry mosquitoes. Even Odin seemed to droop in boredom.

Not far out into their journey, they'd run into a pack of rabid wolves—which had attacked them without the slightest hint of provocation. Harry had knelt over the corpse of one wolf and felt along its body, grimacing as he felt the sharpness of its ribs. They were starving—these animals were desperate for a meal. It wasn't surprising, not really, since he could already feel the darkness of the Taint moving through the Wilds. Duncan had explained how it warped the plants and animals; how it killed and mutated. These wolves, who would normally run at the sight of humans, were victims of that taint.

Harry grimaced as the soft sole of his boot—charmed water resistant and self-cleaning—sank into the wet ground with a disgusting _'plip'_ and drew him from his musings.

"Oh, Merlin," he grumbled, lifting his robes up and out of the way as he tried to pull himself free. The mud held on snugly. "This is _not_ how I wanted to spend my afternoon." After nearly a year of slumming with Hermione and Ron in the wilderness, he had been looking forward to a relaxing _life-long_ vacation. But of course, he was Harry Potter, and nothing was ever easy for him.

Malcolm smirked as he trudged over, wrapped his hands around Harry's waist, and easily lifted him free from the grasping mire.

"Show off," the scowling green-eyed teen grumbled, wrapping his arms around the noble's shoulders, careful to avoid the sharp metal guards. Odin huffed, amused at his human's expression.

Jory and Daveth snorted. "Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, _princess_ ," Alistair grunted, just as dirty and sour as his companions.

Harry bared his teeth at him, "Apology _not_ accepted." He didn't dislike Alistair, not really—he'd had enough negative relationships to last him a lifetime—but the junior Warden's insensitive comments always seemed to strike a nerve. He wasn't in the mood to be gracious, not when he was slowly being eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Now, if it had been _Malcolm_ , then it would be another story. He could eat Harry _any_ time. The wizard sniggered quietly at his thoughts.

Though his endurance had increased dramatically during the duration of his trip to Ostagar with Duncan, Malcolm, and Odin, Harry was still at a physical disadvantage compared to his cohorts. He was short, with a slender, compact musculature built for short bursts of speed. Quidditch didn't require much more than hanging onto a broom, magic in general was a lazy man's dream, and spending the last year foraging and stealing food, living on little sleep and high amounts of stress, and dealing with the taint of Voldemort's soul shards did nothing to keep him healthy.

And, when compared to Malcolm's impressive physique, his was laughable.

He sighed as Malcolm set him down on more stable ground. He hated feeling like dead weight, but he had to face the facts: he couldn't keep up with his party. After just a few hours of wading through the harsh terrain and fighting off rabid, starving animals, he was exhausted.

Odin padded over to him, whining, and leaned against Harry's leg, looking up at him with wide, guileless eyes. The massive mabari turned to Malcolm accusingly. _Take care of him, Master!_

Malcolm frowned as he eyed Harry's drooping shoulders, and pulled the teen closer to him as they continued on. "Harry," he called, gently taking the wizard's hand, "what's bothering you?" He kept his voice as low as possible, and glanced back to make sure their companions weren't paying attention.

Harry's small hand gripped his tighter. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm just—I'm tired." He looked up and met Malcolm's icy blue eyes with his own emerald stare. "I'm not used to this, Malcolm. I don't think I'm cut out for it—I've never used such physical means to fight before and it's... it's hard on me. But I can't leave you, because I can help you, and you need me, and _I_ need _you_ , and—" He took a deep, trembling breath. He hadn't meant to let all of that out.

Malcolm pursed his lips for a second in thought. He knew Harry wasn't built for long, strenuous trips and fights where one was as likely to get a dagger in the back as they were a sword in the gut. He knew it was also doubly hard on him because he was utterly unfamiliar with this world, with the people and culture and fighting styles; he was in over his little black-haired head.

The noble sighed and stopped, ignoring the puzzled looks from the three other men. He leaned down to look Harry in the eye and took the teen's cheeks in his large palms, cradling them carefully. "You're doing just fine," he assured, running his gloved fingers across Harry's delicate cheekbones. "I know this is hard on you, dear one, and I am so very proud of you that you have come this far, just for my sake."

He watched as Harry leaned into his careful caresses, and shot a glare over his shoulders to silence the nervous shifting of their fellow recruits and guide.

"I don't want to let you down, Malcolm," he mumbled, casting his gorgeous green gaze to the ground. Harry looked so very sad in that moment, and Malcolm's heart went out to him, as where he had lost his family to a power-hungry mongrel, so too had Harry. And further yet, he'd also left everything behind—his friends and his future—in hope of seeing that family again, in hope of a peaceful afterlife, but he got stuck in Ferelden, in the heart of the Blight—right into another war that he had no obligation to fight in.

Malcolm pressed a gentle kiss to Harry's forehead, then to each of his eyelids, his cheeks, chin, and finally brushed one across his soft, petal pink lips. "You will never disappoint me, Harry. Never."

Alistair watched with no small amount of confusion as Malcolm Cousland handled the smallest recruit with a surprising amount of gentleness. He didn't understand the apprehension that covered Harry Potter's face, but the look tugged at his heartstrings.

Malcolm looked up from Harry suddenly, and met the Grey Warden's eyes. "We need to break camp soon; we're all tired and it's getting too dark to continue."

Alistair glanced at Harry and noted his tired slump, and then to Jory and Daveth, who were both weary and tense. He sighed in defeat and nodded; he didn't want to spend any more time in the Wilds than necessary but it would be a bad idea to continue on, exhausted as they were.

"Alright," the junior Warden agreed, "but we need to find a defensible area; camping out in the open like this is a bad idea."

All four recruits nodded. Malcolm turned back to Harry. "Think you can arrange something?" he asked, much to the other's confusion. Harry stared at Malcolm for a second before a mischievous smile bloomed on his face.

"Find me a spot and I'll figure something out," he grinned, bouncing on his toes in a sudden burst of energy. His magic was swirling under his skin, eager to be used.

Malcolm nodded, a smirk coming to his lips as he took in Harry's excitement, and pointed to his left. A further look showed that he was motioning to a clearing, backed against a tall hill and surrounded on either side by thick trees and bush.

"Perfect," Harry smiled, and wandered over. Malcolm held back the other three men with an outstretched arm.

"Let him work," he said, cutting off their protests.

Under Malcolm's protective eye, Harry withdrew his Holly wand and took a deep breath, feeling his magic rise to do his bidding. Waving his arm in a short arc, he ridded the clearing of debris, and after another, he thickened the growth on the side of the hill and encouraged the trees to reach out and cover their little camp with a thin canopy. Then he transfigured a medium sized tent for Malcolm and himself out of a twig, and summoned several stones for a fire before conjuring a set of pots and pans for him to cook in.

He paused to peek back at the waiting men and bit his lip to stifle his laughter. Alistair, Daveth, and Jory all had a look of dumbfounded awe on their faces, and Malcolm—his heart warmed at the gleam of pride in those ice-blue eyes.

"Maker's breath," Alistair gawped. He'd never seen magic like that.

Malcolm smirked at them before striding forward to where Harry stood in front of their tent. He pulled the slight wizard into his arms. "Wonderful," he growled against Harry's lips.

Harry laughed softly as he was hoisted in the air. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were showing me off," he quipped.

The corners of Malcolm's mouth twitched upwards. "And if I was?" he asked.

"Well," the raven-haired teen drawled loftily, "I can't fault you for that. I am pretty damn magnificent."

The tall noble snorted and set Harry down so he could beckon the others to make their way into the camp. Alistair, Jory, and Daveth moved forward slowly, clearly wary of Harry's powers. As soon as they were past the tree line, Harry flicked his wand once more and they jumped as thorns grew between the gaps in the trees.

The short wizard laughed at their surprised faces. "And now, I have you at my mercy," he cackled.

Daveth actually squeaked.

Harry rolled his eyes, "I'm kidding, sheesh."

Alistair smirked at Daveth, before turning his attention to Harry. "What kind of magic was that?" he questioned.

Harry tilted his head at him, leaning into Malcolm's side as he watched Alistair shift his weight from foot to foot. "Why do you want to know?" he asked, honestly interested.

Alistair shrugged, "I've never seen magic like that, and I was trained as a Templar, so I'm curious." His words cut off when Harry abruptly paled, "I—what's wrong?" He glanced from the wizard to Malcolm.

Malcolm's eyes had narrowed at Alistair's declaration and he gently moved Harry behind him, a strong arm keeping the teen pressed to his back. "You are a Templar," he stated, voice low and dangerous. Harry and Duncan's earlier words ran through his mind; Templars were potentially dangerous to Harry, _his_ Harry.

Alistair took a step backwards, raising his hands in supplication, perplexed and a bit fearful of Malcolm's suddenly menacing demeanor. "Whoa, whoa! I'm not—I never took my vows. I've just gone through the training. That's all."

"And yet you can use their abilities?" Alistair nodded. "Will you promise to never use them against Harry?" Malcolm asked. His expression was dark and his eyes hooded. The junior Grey Warden could tell that the noble wouldn't hesitate to strike him down if he made a threatening move. His eyes flicked to Daveth and Jory, who stood off to the side, wary at the mounting tension.

Harry, from his position where he was pressed against Malcolm's back, tugged lightly on the noble's arm. "Malcolm," he whispered, "please calm down." He didn't want the chestnut-haired man to overreact and resort to bloodshed. Alistair hadn't made one threatening move against Harry, outside of being unable to control his temper—and that was mostly due to Harry's deliberate prodding.

The tall warrior grunted, his eyes never leaving Alistair. He wanted the man's promise, regardless of what Harry said.

Alistair nodded slowly. "If he doesn't attack me, yeah, I promise not to use any of my Templar abilities against him. It's only fair."

Harry shrugged off Malcolm's arm and stepped around him. "Thank you," he said quietly, gracing Alistair with a small smile. "I didn't mean to make a big deal out of it. I've just—I've heard things about Templars before. I'm not a mage, but I do use magic, so we have no idea how a Templar's abilities would affect me." He glanced back at his self-appointed protector. "Malcolm's protective of me—but he doesn't mean anything by it."

The junior Warden ducked his head, hiding a chuckle at Harry's naïve statement. He was _quite_ sure that the noble _did_ mean something by it, but he appreciated Harry's attempt at breaking the ice. Perhaps the brat wasn't so bad after all.

"Well, I can understand that," Alistair said understandingly. Many people were wary of Templars, magic-users especially. He was sure that some of them probably got off on the fear their stations garnered, though he'd never say it out loud, for fear of Malcolm gutting him for sullying the would-be mage's ears.

The wizard watched him for a little bit longer before shrugging, shifting everyone's attention to setting up camp, since Alistair seemed uneasy with so many eyes on him. "Well," he said, looking to Daveth and Jory, "feel free to set up your tents. I'll get started on a meal—" he paused and looked down at his clothes, grimacing, "— _after_ I get cleaned up."

The emerald-eyed teen turned sharply and strode into the tent he'd transfigured for Malcolm and himself. Malcolm followed soon after, glancing back at the three men that stood in the center of the clearing, still processing Harry's abrupt subject change. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, _Well? Get on with it,_ and then disappeared.

A moment of silence passed before Jory coughed. "I'm not sure what to make of those two, but that Cousland is dead scary," he mused haltingly, eyeing the tent the man had disappeared into just seconds before. Then he surveyed the neatly arranged camping grounds, fire-pit, and copper pots, "And his little limpet is dead useful."

Daveth laughed and tossed his pack to the ground, "Aye, ser knight. That they are."

* * *

Harry was bathing when Malcolm entered the tent, a fall of water appearing out of thin air above his head and raining down in a continuous stream, only to fall onto a slab of conjured marble and disappear.

The ground, instead of bare earth, was layered with an eclectic blend of soft, but colorful, rugs. A large bed once again dominated the far side of the tent and two chairs were tucked in the corner. Harry had kept the furnishing sparse so they would be able to navigate without breaking their necks if they were attacked.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked from behind the opaque curtain surrounding his make-shift shower. His mind was already searching for a possible meal to make out of the meager rations they had. Conjuring food—which he had discovered early on _was_ possible in _this_ world, as opposed to _his_ —was tiring, even more so than any other spell. He had little energy left after their trek through the swamplands and found himself grateful that he'd packed extra food in anticipation of just that.

Malcolm grunted an affirmative as he unlaced and unbuckled his armor, drawing a private smile from the wizard. The youngest Cousland was an unusually reticent person, but Harry found he didn't mind the man's quiet nature. Harry wasn't much of a talker, himself. But, there was something comforting in the way that Malcolm would simply listen to him natter on when the mood struck him, even if it was about inane subjects like his ever-popular griping about the latrines.

Harry had never imagined that he'd come to care so much for someone—much less a _man_ — _that_ way. _But_ , he thought, _Malcolm is Malcolm_. The wizard was loath to judge anyone by their gender, much less suppress his feelings because the person he cared for was the same sex as him.

A blush came to his face as he remembered the kiss he and Malcolm had shared back in Ostagar. The man was practically mute, but by Merlin, could he _kiss!_

He wrapped himself in a towel, stepped out from behind the thin divider, and froze. Malcolm was lounging against the bed's headboard with his arms behind his head and one leg bent while the other laid flat. Harry clutched the fabric around his waist like a life-line, his mouth suddenly dry, as he swallowed heavily and traced the man's shirtless torso with his eyes.

"Um, hi," he squeaked, having to literally drag his gaze away from the impressive play of muscle beneath sun-kissed skin. He fixed his eyes on his toes. His face felt like it was on fire and he stood in the middle of the tent like an idiot, garbed in nothing but a towel and still dripping wet from his shower. _Oh Merlin, I'm_ such _a bloody ponce_ , he lamented.

Malcolm smirked at Harry's embarrassment, even as his gaze turned dark as he followed the trail of water down Harry's naked stomach. The teen was adorably flustered, and his ivory cheeks were flushed an delicious red. Malcolm hummed and slid off the bed, stalking towards the slight wizard like a predator. Harry glanced up and his eyes widened with each successive step, until he looked rather like a startled deer. The sight was positively _appetizing_.

The raven gasped out a shuddering breath as Malcolm engulfed him in his strong arms, his bare chest sliding against Harry's own. They pressed together, and heat spiraled between them.

"Do you have any idea how you look, _Harry_?" the noble whispered, almost purring out Harry's name. His lips slid against Harry's smooth jaw, his tongue lazily lapping up beads of water. The wizard moaned quietly as Malcolm ducked his head to scrape his teeth against Harry's collarbone, and his head fell back, exposing the length of his vulnerable neck. "Standing here, covered in naught but a scrap of cloth, like a present to be unwrapped."

 _Oh, oh, oh!_ Harry groaned dazedly as Malcolm's calloused hands slid over his bare skin and to the backs of his thighs. The noble gripped them tightly and lifted Harry up as if he was light as a feather, forcing the wizard's slender legs to wrap around his powerful waist. Tendrils of pleasure coiled in his belly with Malcolm's every touch, and he shivered at the man's slow seduction.

The way Malcolm was able to reduce him to a gibbering mess with only a few words was astounding, but he figured he could get used to it if Malcolm kept doing—oh!— _that_.

"I haven't been able to touch you for _hours_ ," the warrior hissed, one of his hands sliding into Harry's damp hair and pulling it firmly. Harry watched his hungry expression with half-lidded eyes, his lips parted invitingly.

"Don't let me stop you now," Harry breathed, and his eyes fluttered closed as Malcolm chuckled and pressed his lips against Harry's.

* * *

Harry growled as his appearance garnered raised eyebrows from the three other men. He'd stumbled out of the tent, bright-eyed and scarlet-cheeked, with bruised lips and wild hair after Malcolm had finally released him in favor of taking a shower, unthinking of what the others would say.

The wizard scowled at their teasing leers and grabbed the abandoned pots and brought them over to the fire. As revenge, he deliberately let one of them hit Daveth over the head.

All three men had gotten their tents set up, and one of them had started a fire. Dusk had already turned into night, and they could hear the sounds of nocturnal animals above the crackle of the burning wood and their sniggering.

"You're lucky I'm nice enough to fix you a meal," Harry grumbled as he flicked his wand over the shrunken pack containing all his cooking supplies, returning it to its original size. His casual display of magic shocked the others into silence, only for him to surprise them further as he started pulling out more ingredients than the bag could possibly hold.

It didn't take him long to get everything finished, and by that time, Malcolm had finished and was lounging outside their tent, watching Harry's practiced motions with a languid eye, occasionally smirking in satisfaction at the darkening bruises that covered the wizard's neck.

"Thank you, beloved," he quietly said, gently taking the proffered plate from Harry's hands. On it was several slices of herb-crusted beef, a piece of yeasty bread slathered with soft cheese, and a small pile of berries that Harry had found on their trip to Ostagar and saved for later use. It looked utterly delectable, even though he'd rather feast on the blushing teen in front of him.

Harry coughed quietly to hide his pleasure at Malcolm's pet name and turned to give Alistair, Jory, and Daveth their own shares, before returning to Malcolm's side with his own meal. Light-hearted banter was flung around the camp grounds, and before long the four came to talk about how they were recruited.

"There isn't much to it, really," Daveth stated. "I grew up around here, a few days east, but I moved to Denerim when I was young. I made a living for myself, stealing. It was alright, nothing glamorous.

"I tried to cut Duncan's purse while he was in Denerim. Turns out the old man is faster than he looks." He chuckled in remembrance, "The guards were already out for my blood, see. I'd have been strung up like a lamb to the slaughter had he not Conscripted me. Saved my life, he did." Then he shrugged, and that was all there was to it. "What about you, ser knight?" He asked Jory as he got up to drop another few logs into the fire.

By this time, the stars were bright in the sky and Harry was curled up in Malcolm's lap, his head resting against the warrior's broad chest and one hand snaked under the noble's shirt for warmth. Malcolm, himself, was lounging on a fallen log Harry had moved to the center of the clearing for seating. Their empty plates lay abandoned on the ground.

"He recruited me in Highever," Jory said as he oiled his sword. Malcolm knew his own equipment was getting a much more thorough cleaning inside the tent thanks to Harry's magic. Sometimes he thought that the wizard was determined to spoil him, but he was loathe to take away any opportunity for Harry to use the magic he seemed to love so much.

"I came from Redcliffe, but Arl Eamon allowed me to leave for Highever after I met my future wife. I'd won a tournament in Highever when Duncan was visiting; he recruited me afterwards." He smiled gently, and the expression gentled his otherwise unremarkable face, "My wife's with child now. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to come, but she made the decision for me."

"How far along is she?" The hushed voice startled the four men, as they had thought Harry was asleep. He sat up and turned to look at Jory with luminous eyes.

Jory grinned, obviously happy to get the chance to brag about his new family. "Seven months, now. I'm hoping for a baby girl, but a boy would be just as nice."

Harry laughed happily in reply, and settled back into Malcolm's warm embrace, pressing his cold nose against the warrior's strong neck. "Yes, I think you'd do well as a father. My congratulations."

"Thanks, Harry," the knight said quietly, and then eyed Alistair, "What about you, Warden? Do you mind sharing your story?"

The dirty-blonde looked up, startled at the question. "Oh, uh, I'm sure you don't want to know. It's not interesting at all."

"I'd like to know," Harry mumbled, turning his head just enough so he could look Alistair in the eye. The Warden paused at the genuine interest on the wizard's face.

"I—alright. Well," he brought up a hand to scratch at his ear nervously, "I basically grew up in the Chantry. I was going to be a Templar, but before I could take my vows, Duncan came and got me. The Revered Mother didn't want to let me go, but he invoked the Right of Conscription." He looked uncomfortable to be sharing that piece of his life with practical strangers, but he continued, "I've been with the Grey Wardens ever since. So, that's it."

Harry gazed at him for a few seconds, his eyes tracing the slight purse of Alistair's mouth and how his eyes had tightened in the corners. There were bad memories associated with that story, but he wouldn't pry; Harry had his own demons, after all. He wondered if the others even noticed; he knew Malcolm was sure to—he rarely missed anything. "Thank you, Alistair," he whispered, sending the man a small smile, trying to alleviate some of the pain that riddled his face. He really did appreciate that the man opened up, even just a little bit.

Alistair just nodded shallowly, not meeting his eyes. His mood was almost a complete turnaround from earlier and Harry sighed sadly; the Warden seemed so lost that Harry almost regretted bringing up his past.

An awkward silence hung over the camp for a while, before Jory spoke up, "What about you, your Grace?" The question was directed at Malcolm.

The tall warrior stiffened minutely. While he appreciated the fact that Jory had not only mustered the courage to ask him, but had done just that instead of relying on the hearsay that had followed his arrival at Ostagar, Malcolm didn't feel up to discussing the brutal usurping of his family's seat of power.

"Duncan Conscripted me during Howe's attack," he forced out before he fell silent. Harry ran a soothing hand up his neck and cupped his jaw, and nuzzled his chest in comfort. In turn, the warrior tightened his hold on the one thing he had left, and buried his nose in Harry's soft hair.

The others watched their actions and quietly wondered at their closeness.

Before they could ask him, Harry offered his own story as he was entering his tent, his back turned to them: "Duncan and Malcolm were in the right place at the wrong time. I was fleeing from some darkspawn up North, granted I had no idea what they were at the time—and don't ask me how they got there—when I ran into the two, literally. Slammed right into Malcolm, running full tilt; it was like running into a brick wall. Anyway, they saved my hide and I tagged along."

He paused and looked back at him, his eyes narrowed and dangerous. Harry's slight stature suddenly seeming much more menacing, "And I won't abide any threat to the people I care about." His eyes flicked to Alistair and softened. That man had suffered, and if he could help it, Harry would make sure it wouldn't happen again. He took a deep breath and ducked under the tent flap; he'd protect Malcolm and Duncan and Alistair, and even Daveth and Jory, as best he could.

Later, he chuckled as he got into bed. It seemed like he'd just decided to pick up a stray. He hoped Malcolm was up to playing house—Alistair seemed like he needed a guiding hand.


End file.
